Death Following
by Aromene
Summary: His fate has been decided weeks ago, now it has given him a time.


**Disclaimer: Yeah, I wish.**

**AN: I've spent the July-long weekend in Muskoka with October-long weekend weather. The wind has blown from the north since we got here on Thursday and the temperature hasn't made it above 20C/70F all weekend. In my utter depression I wrote this. When I figure out what events happened before this story starts, you will be the first to know.**

**Yeah, that means I have no idea either.**

**Summary: His fate has been decided weeks ago; now it has given him a time.**

* * *

The wind has been blowing for four days. A cold northern not-quite gale that cuts through everything and chills him to the bone. He doesn't think he'll ever be warm again; can't remember what the feel of the sun heating his skin is like. He knows only cold and cloud and death.

He has been wandering in this place for longer than he can clearly remember. He is not certain how he came to be here; only an image of what life was like before stays with him, but it is fuzzy and not quite complete and when he tries to grasp at it it slips away even further. He has given up being frustrated because it only leads to anger and pain and losing energy he can't afford to loose.

He is dying. He knows it more certainly than he knows anything else. This place is killing him, day by day, moment by moment, and a part of him is glad, because it means he won't be here forever. Because here is the best prison he's ever seen, but he doesn't know what his crime is.

He knows he should rise and go down to the river for water. Knows his store of roots and what passes for small rodents in this place is getting low and he should replenish it while he still has the strength to do so. But so much of him does not care; he has already given up, and figures that delaying the inevitable is not the intelligent thing to do. He has no desire to prolong his agony past what is already is. His days are marked by cold and hunger and the feeling of his body shutting down.

It will not be long now, he thinks. He never thought he would look forward to death, but now he wishes for it. It is the only end he can see to this present agony.

Sometimes, when he has had the strength, he climbs to the north hill and looks down into the valley below. It is no different from the valley he is living in, but something keeps drawing him there. Once he set out to the north to see if he could find a way home; wherever home is, but he made it no further than half a day's trek before he was stumbling with fatigue and had to turn back. He slept in a daze of half-fever for three days afterwards. He knows that was when he gave up.

He picks up his canteen and slings it over his shoulder as he struggles to rise. He sets off down to the river simply because it gives him something to do. He has never been one to sit around and wait, even for a death he welcomes. The cave that he has made his shelter in is not far from the valley river, but it's a sharp decline. He stumbles more than once, and near the bottom his legs finally give out and he slides the last ten feet to the bottom. He is cut and scrapped but he hardly notices the new injuries on top of the old. He has learned to ignore them.

The river water is ice cold. It is spring on this world, as far as he can tell, and the ice run-off from the mountains turns the water bitter. He has given up bathing because it leaves him shivering for hours. He does not want to die of cold. It's about the only way he does not want to die right now.

He checks his only trap on the way back. It is empty, and he thinks that maybe that's better. His fate has been decided weeks ago; now it has given him a time. There is relief, and also a hint of regret. He has never wanted to die alone.

But alone is all he has known since he came to this place, and even if he could pick another being to sit with him while he dies, he cannot remember anyone in his past that he might choose.

He admits to himself that this is not entirely true. He remembers the face of a woman, her dark hair like mahogany in the light. He remembers her eyes lighting up for him. He remembers her smile. He does not remember her name. She is the only vision of his past he can see with clarity, but he knows that he does not want her with him. He does not want her to watch him die.

He thinks he might have loved her. Once, maybe; even if he never admitted it to himself. It does not make his situation easier. But he knows there is nothing there to hope for, and that she is probably better off without him.

He has been here fifty-six days, he thinks. He remembers coming through the Gate in the dead of night to cold wind and silence. His memory of the days that followed is blurred. He knows he is far from where he started. Two, maybe three steep hills and at least thirty miles separate him from the only thing that could save him. If he could remember a single address of where to go. But he can't, and he will never make the Gate in the condition he is in. He knows he was dazed and maybe ill when he first came, and that in his confusion he knew only that he had to get far away from the circle. Once conscious thought returned he was already lost enough that his further wandering has only led him more off course. He found the cave two weeks ago. By then he was already so weakened he could not journey further and he knows the river is all that has kept him alive this long.

All of this is a frustration he has let pass. Hating himself now serves no purpose.

The sun is lowering in the sky. Soon night will come and with it bitter cold. It takes him until dark to crawl back up the hillside and he is dizzy with exhaustion when he reaches the cave. The fire has burned low again, but he manages to spark it to life once more. It is the only thing that will keep him alive tonight.

Sleep comes fitfully. He knows he should be more tired, but the ground is too hard and the air is too cold. He finally succumbs to the darkness, his dreams plagued by images of a life forgotten. He does not remember them when he wakes.

He does not know that tonight will be different from the fifty-six before. That the past he cannot remember has not forgotten him.

Thirty-three miles to the north-west the rippling surface of an active wormhole gushes to life. A MALP trundles through, its camera scanning the clearing. It sees trees, rock and sky. It transmits the temperature back through the Gate as reading 28˚F. The wormhole vanishes, leaving only the dead silence of a forgotten world.

Across the mountains, John Sheppard turns fitfully in his sleep as he dreams of a world he has forgotten and a people who have not given up searching for him.

* * *

Morning dawns bitterly cold, but the winds have dropped. He notes all of this absently as he kicks the fire to life once more. He picks at the last of his food stores, not hungry, but feeling compelled to eat what he has anyways. He tries to sip from his canteen but finds it has turned to ice overnight. He glances down to the river below, knowing that if he does not drink something he will be dead in a day or two. He is too weak to survive any longer. But he is still sleepy and the drop to the river seems more than he can bear. He sets the canteen out in the weak sunlight and hopes it will melt enough for a few sips.

He has nothing to do now but continue to wait. But the sleep that did not come easily the night before pulls him down into darkness. The fire burns low and then finally goes out when it runs out of fuel. The temperature creeps above zero, but the ice in the canteen does not melt.

He does not hear the noise overhead as a ship emerges from thin air. It hovers for a moment before setting down in the clearing the river has made through the valley. The back hatch opens; five men appear, glancing around them. One points upwards towards where the cave is just visible over the lip of rocks that form it. The others nod.

It takes them only a few moments to scramble up the loose rock. They are strong and healthy and the incline does not pose the problems it does for the cave's resident. There is a flurry of activity when they spot the crumpled figure huddled against the rock wall of the cave. One of the men drops to the ground beside the unconscious form and reaches out to feel for a pulse.

"He's alive!" There is a decided mark of relief that runs through the other men. "Bloody hell, he's alive," the stooped figure whispers again, to himself. "Get that stretcher up here: we need to get him back to Atlantis ASAP!" Carson Beckett can't quite leave out all the worry in his voice as he shouts down to those below. The men at the jumper scramble to obey and it is only a matter of moments before they are easing the unconscious man onto the board and strapping him down. The carriers slip and slide as they hurry down the decline to the waiting ship.

One of the men is still waiting at the ship and looks harried and worried. "Is he going to be alright." He does not receive an immediate answer. "Carson," he glances at the doctor crouched on the floor of the jumper beside his patient; "is he going to be alright?"

A heartbeat of silence passes and the asker gasps back an exclamation of shock. "I do not know, Rodney. He's so very weak. But he's still alive, and right now, that's got to be enough. To think, he's been here all this bloody time!"

The other man looks guilt stricken. "I – I should have figured it out sooner. I should have known –"

"Don't you start, Rodney. There's enough blame to go around; don't go hogging it all for yourself, lad. You are not to blame for what happened. You dinae do this to him."

Rodney shuts his mouth, but he hovers nearby as the jumper launches into the air and sets a quickened pace back to the Gate. Carson is working quickly, his movements sure and professional, but there is an edge of something else underneath. Rodney knows it's the closest he's ever seen his friend to panic before. It doesn't relieve Rodney's own fears.

He does not leave the side of his two friends until he is dragged away by one of Carson's nurses. He takes to pacing in the waiting room, joined by Elizabeth, Teyla, and Ronon. Hours pass. Carson comes out to tell them that John is stable, but it's going to be awhile before he's out of the woods. Rodney is frustrated. He hates waiting.

Hours turn into days. Rodney only leaves the infirmary when he is ordered to eat, shower or sleep. He does not stay away for long. Carson has no strength to spare to argue with him. The doctor has not left John's beside since they brought him in, either.

When the sun rises on the fourth morning, Rodney is sitting vigil by the infirmary bed. Carson has finally collapsed in exhaustion next door, and it is too early for any of the others to be in yet.

It is the slight movement of a hand nudging his that alerts him. He glances up, startled, and nearly forgets to breathe with the shock of it when he sees John's eyes are opened.

"Oh my god, you're awake!" The last word is pitched higher than he realizes. A loud noise in the next room is followed by running footsteps as Carson barrels in. He nearly skids to a halt in surprise when he sees opened eyes staring at him. Carson spares a momentary glance of admonishment at Rodney. "Ya nearly scared me to death, shouting like that."

Rodney doesn't even attempt to look apologetic. He glances at the bedridden figure instead; as if this is reason enough to justify screaming at dawn in an otherwise quiet infirmary.

Carson knows that in this case, it is. He walks to John's bedside, reading and processing the monitors with only half his attention. He smiles down at his charge and is pleasantly surprised when John's makes a half-smile back.

"Welcome back, John. We've missed ya, lad."

Rodney smiles encouragingly. "Yeah; just hasn't been the same around here without your wild hair and bad jokes. No one argues half as well with me as you do." Carson snorts softly; Rodney ignores it.

John opens his mouth and coughs a little, eagerly accepting the ice chip Carson slips passed his lips. He sucks greedily and then tries again.

"-hanks," he croaks – too long without using his voice and he is almost surprised he remembers how to speak – "good t'be home."

They both smile down at him. Carson pats his arm gently. "Aye, that it is. Now get some rest lad; you deserve it." He makes a motion to Rodney who seems reluctant to agree. A little sharper, he makes it again, and Rodney sighs. "Yeah, definitely. Sleep the day away." He follows Carson out of the room, but not without more than a glance back at the figure on the bed.

John smiles after them. He takes a deep breath, welcoming the familiar smell of antiseptic and the slight sea-tang that hovers in every room of Atlantis.

He wonders how he could have forgotten any of this. He wonders what brought it all back. He really doesn't care. He is home; he is safe; and he remembers. And as soon as he can escape from the infirmary everything will be right with the world.


End file.
